


Fever & Fury

by Astraloon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Slow Burn, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astraloon/pseuds/Astraloon
Summary: A year after the Inquisition has been disbanded, Cullen Rutherford is in the deepest depths of his lyrium addiction. He is a broken man, begging coin in the port city of Val Chevin. Fueled by his need of the drug, and tethered to his hatred for the former Inquisitor, Cullen is fully prepared to waste away by the sea.Ellana Lavellan has stepped down from the role of Inquisitor, tormented by uncertainty over every choice she had made during her time as a leader. When she receives word her former Commander has lost himself, Ellana feels compelled to see him for herself. To know if he is truly lost. And if not, will he join her once more as she strives to change the fate of Thedas?
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for deciding to give my fic a chance! Please know it is rated 'E' for future chapters. There will be some returning characters as well.  
> This fic deals with addiction, self-image, and past traumas. Please keep that front of mind when reading, and if any of these things keep you from continuing, I understand.
> 
> Beyond that, please enjoy. 
> 
> \- A

Cold rain drizzled over the quiet port city of Val Chevin, matting Cullen’s unkempt hair to his dirt-stained face. Thunder cracked somewhere over the Waking Sea – a warning of a much bigger squall approaching. Market vendors began quickly packing away their stalls, grumbling over the misfortune of yet another storm this early in the spring. This had been the third in just as many days, especially unlucky for those who relied on the port market for their daily bread.

Unlucky for Cullen, too. He sat curled under a pier, knees drawn up to his chest. Had it been a nicer day and there been more of a crowd, he would have sat in the alley separating the fish vendors from the shopping district. His palm quietly extended as he shamefully cast his gaze down, murmuring a plea for coin as anonymous feet hurried past.

Sometimes a sailor would take pity and give him a swig of whatever they had in their flasks. Other times there would be an irked sigh, townsfolk mumbling in Orlesian as they tossed a few copper at his feet. Once or twice sisters from the Chantry had come to offer him guidance. For them he would raise his bleary eyes and meet their merciful expressions. His dry, cracking lips would pull into a contemptuous snarl. Venom poured out of his mouth as he scorned them, their mindless work, their blind devotion, their exceeding stupidity. Anything that might send them scurrying from him and back into their vipers nest.

It was days like this, when he could not beg enough coin for even a spoonful of lyrium, that his thoughts turned truly poisonous. They blurred with images of Kinnoch Hold, the burning of Kirkwall, the fall of Haven, the horrified faces of his troops cut down by demons, final expressions forever frozen in empty screams for help, for mercy they would never receive.

Curling in tighter on himself and resting his forehead on his scabbed-over knees, Cullen found it constructive to try and pull all his fury and fever into a single focus. For all of his trying, the lyrium had not yet taken his mind. When the last of its blissful high drifted out of his veins, his memories would return in heavy, crashing waves. The same ones that had plagued him in his youth - now bolstered by an array of new and fresher terrors.

The storm moved into the city and the wooden pier above creaked in protest. Fierce wind howled as the rainy drizzle turned to a sheet of freezing, pelting bullets.

Cullen conjured the foggy image he used as his outlet. A lithe elven woman, her sunset-orange eyes burning brightly as she leveled him with her scorn. Delicate mouth twisted into a grimace, the same expression she had masked herself with the day she found him hunched over his desk, philter open before him.

Inquisitor Lavellan.

How he loathed her now, despised her, cursed her. He had been struggling then, to keep the demons at the door without assistance from lyrium. It had been working, too. The nightmares still came, certainly, but he could perform his duties as Commander. Even with the dull and ever-present ache behind his eyes, he crafted farmers and merchant sons into fine soldiers.

Soldiers that died at her word. A simple wave of her hand.

Why had he agreed to put a mage in charge? She was driven by contempt for humans, for Templars, for anyone who did not understand the ‘plight of the elves’ or ‘the suppression of magic’. What madness had driven his devotion to the cause, so focused on his tasks he couldn’t see the beast that lead them into oblivion?

Worse still was the fleeting moment, the brief stroke of true absurdity when he had thought himself attracted to her, and she to him. A few private discussions, a subtle glance, a single game of chess. She must have cast some sort of spell. Pulled him so deep into the current he could only let the white-waters tumble him along.

But that laughable infatuation had not lasted long, no. He thought back to the fateful evening he had walked the battlements on another sleepless night, and cast a wanting gaze towards the balcony of her master suite. There, he saw her speaking with…with…

What was his name? The other elven mage?

It didn’t matter.

He had seem them speaking, and the other mage had turned to leave. She stopped him, a gentle hand pulling at his elbow. After a moment, he turned and kissed her. It wasn’t the first kiss either, of that he was sure. It was deep, and in a single moment they both went stumbling back into her bedroom, grasping at one another.

Yes, he had truly been a fool.

After that, the headaches worsened. The nightmares became more vivid. He had gone to…the Seeker, yes. He had gone to the Seeker and asked to be relieved. She denied him, saying she saw his progress, how far he had come.

He chuckled to himself, a stale sound. Oh, what would she think of that judgement now?

Retreating back to his office, he had taken out the lyrium to…do what? Torture himself with its presence? Lavellan had walked in then. He would not meet her gaze, but he was sure he knew the look she wore. The same one she had when she faced all others who would defy her. Steely and uncompromising.

“Are you alright?” She had asked, as if she had any care at all. The question was just another formality required by a leader.

They spoke briefly. He told her vaguely of his life before the Inquisition. How the nightmares never ceased, how the pain ate away at his resolve. How he wanted to give everything, every last piece of himself to her and their cause. Even if it meant rebinding his Templar chains.

After a minute or two of heavy silence, she replied “I can’t watch you die. Please Cullen, take the lyrium.”

And so he had. He had done as commanded of him, like a good little soldier.

Then the Exalted Council had been called.

He was deep into his addiction by then. A year without constant battles, without the looming threat of extinction to keep him focused, meant he had plenty of time to himself. Time he spent with a his philter in his lap.

Out of respect for her, for all his peers, he had not attended. The representatives did not need to use the shake of his hands or the sweat on his brow as ammo against them, as evidence they had all failed as badly as he had.

It hadn’t mattered though. He had heard through a letter from…someone…that she had disbanded the Inquisition. Disbanded! After everything!

His jaw clenched now, teeth grinding. His beard began to itch, only the very beginning of the torment to come. First his face, then arms, then his whole body would feel as though it had been engulfed in blue flame.

And none of it had mattered. None of the sacrifice, his dead men, the time spent pouring over the best positions for strong holds, for troop movements, fortifying towns and gaining reputation. Just like that, she had sent everyone packing. Back to homes that may not even exist anymore, to families she had torn apart.

Maker, how the thought of her nauseated him now.

The sound of boot steps over the pier startled him. Who would be out in a gale like this? He tried to squint, to see the figure who had stopped a few feet above, but there wasn’t enough light for his already unfocused eyes to settle on anything.

Perhaps it was a sailor, come to make sure his vessel was secure enough. Perhaps they would take mercy on him – offer some food, or ale, or coin. Maker, please let them offer him coin.

Cullen stood, shaking. When was his last meal? It must have been at least a day ago. The coin he had gathered had all gone to tiny vials of lyrium, swallowed as soon as they were placed in his palm.

He clutched his ragged cloak around himself, full of holes and loose threads from a year of being both blanket and bed. Stumbling, he shielded his eyes and climbed up the rocky ledge to the long stretch of pier that extended into the now violently rolling waves.

He saw the figure there, small and stark against the vastness of the ocean. Wrapped in a warm, expensive looking cloak that clasped tightly around their body. Likely not a sailor, but perhaps a Captain. The figure faced him, statue still. He could not see their face through the torrent.

“Have you any coin? Coin? Please?” he called out as loudly as he could muster, his throat so much dryer than he had anticipated. The cool rain on his skin had helped to quell some of the itch, he would try to cup some of it in his hands after this.

“Ser, please, have you a-” he stumbled, bare foot catching an uneven plank. Instinctively his arm stretched out for something solid and steadying.

The cloaked image took a step forward and Cullen grasped a small shoulder. He likely would have taken them both down just a few months ago, but much of his muscle had been lost as he prioritized lyrium over all else. Bread scraps and dried fish tossed his away were enough to keep him moving, but not by much.

“Beg forgiveness, Ser, I’ll leave…but have you any coin to sp—“

He looked up then. Into an elven woman’s face, small and narrow. Brow pulled tight and mouth frowning. Her sunset-orange eyes focused on him, bright and full of some emotion he could not name.

Lavellan. Ellana Lavellan.

*****

When Scout Harding had written to her about finding Cullen in Val Chevin, Ellana had thought she had prepared herself for what should would find.

‘… _he is lost in the lyrium, Inquisitor_.’

She had scoffed at the title, only Harding and a very small handful of others still used it when addressing her.

‘ _Ragged, likely not bathed in many weeks. I don’t think he even knew who I was._  
 _I gave some coin and still he would not meet my eye. It was very bad._  
 _If he is not lost totally now, I do not think it will be much longer._ ’

Ellana has asked Harding and the Red Jennies both to look out for the Commander after the rest of the Inquisition had lost track of him. Leliana - Divine Victoria now, she reminded herself, did not have the time to look for a single missing man, especially one who had left of his own volition.

It did not surprise her now it had been Harding who had found him first. The description she had given the Jennies – a tall, proud man. Kept blonde hair and some scruff, likely working the dock or other manual labor, was not in the least true. Not anymore.

He was still tall, but his shoulder hunched inward as though he had some kind of cramp in his back or stomach. His face was hollowed and his strong cheek-bones were now covered in mats of unwashed facial hair that appeared to have grown out over many months. His frame was smaller, too. The grip on her shoulder was tight – but desperately so. It was not the easy strength he had once possessed. She suspected there would be a stronger smell, like wet Mabari, had the cold rain and salty ocean air not dominated her senses.

Those blue eyes that bore into her, though. She would recognize those anywhere, even with the whites around them now angrily lined with red.

“Cul-“ before she could finish his name, he shoved her harshly. Ellana lurched backward with the unexpected force, barely catching her footing.

Her cloak stayed clasped, mercifully.

“LEAVE ME, WITCH.” His voice was booming, even over the thunder rolling above them.

She looked back up at him, his face gone from dumb confusion to twisting rage. He snarled and came forward to shove her again, but she saw it this time and moved just enough that he stumbled and tripped, falling to all fours. His bare feet could not whether the water-slick wood of the pier, and she heard the heavy thump as he clumsily went down.

“Cullen, please let me—“ She went to extend her hand, again forgetting that it…

“Let you WHAT?” Cullen had turned over, now trying to stand on his own. He was managing it, just barely. “Come to see your WORK?” He gestured fiercely towards his disheveled form “AND ARE YOU PLEASED?” He spat the words, and…was that froth at the corners of his mouth?

The accusation stunned. Cold numbness gripped her gut, and not from the storm barreling down on them.

He blamed her. Of course. Of course he did.

Her silence spurred him on “You vile snake! You tyrant! Why have you come here!? Am I not tormented enough by your ugly memory? Does the Maker revile me so!? LEAVE ME!”

He did not try to move past her again, nor did he reach out.

Cullen did not want her to see him, never mind offer help. He hated her more fiercely, she mused, than she had ever seen him hate anything. He had always been a passionate man, but this?

Was it the lyrium? They had never seen eye-to-eye when it came to the fate-altering decisions made by the Inquisition but…surely never this. 

Or was this another oversight? Something she missed in her dogged pursuit of...whatever it had been she do desperately chased. Power? Peace? Vengeance? Or maybe justice? It was not so clear to her as it had once seemed.

Ellana found herself moving to the side so he could pass. She could not force him to stay, and she would not engage him in a physical fight. Even with her handicap, she imagined she might best him. But then where would they be?

He stormed past, moving as quickly as his bruised and battered feet would carry him. He had come up from the bottom of the pier Harding said he sometimes slept under, but that is not where he returned to.

When he hit the cobblestone again he began to run. Turning into the alley she had thought to first search for him. Harding had detailed the places he frequented in her letter: The alley, the pier, and the shady bar on the west side of the city. This was where others like him gathered, addicts of lyrium and all manner of vice, vying for their respective fixes.

She hoped, silently, someone there would take mercy and let him stay until the storm subsided. Until she gathered her wits, until perhaps his senses returned, and he might consider the offer she had come to make him.

Ellana made her way back to the mount she had left tied up at the inn down the block, and started the hour-long journey back to her cottage. She did not know the way very well yet and the storm would not make it any easier. Pulling up her hood, the wheels of her mind began to turn again.

She had missives to write.


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen ran as fast as his sickly legs could carry him. In the pounding sheets of rain all he managed was barely more than a jog. Once he had turned down the alley and away from the Inquisitor the flames that had been stoking his frenzy snuffed out completely. Had he thought himself tired earlier, he was entirely exhausted now.

Why had she come? It wasn’t just some fever delusion, he was sure. Sometimes if he went too long without a lyrium dose his nightmares would creep into reality. He’d see glowing eyes peeking out from between the cracks of walls, or a heap of corpses piled at the end of a dock. Once, when he passed a stall selling Hala pelts he swore it was the flayed skin of men instead. The image had sent him screaming in the opposite direction.

But no, she had been real. He had felt her bony shoulder in his grip. He had seen the steam come from her mouth as she spoke to him.

The waking nightmares never spoke, a small grace.

She was looking for him, she must have been. Why? Had she heard of his disgrace? How far he had fallen into the pit of his addiction? Maybe she saw him as a stain to be removed. He shamed her memory, her legacy. Had she come to clean the tarnish off her image? To remove him completely?

Cullen glanced over his shoulder as he limped on. Pushing stringy hair out of his eyes, he focused as best he could on the path behind him. No one followed, he could not see anyone lingering around the corners or in the shadows. Beside the steady rhythm of rain, no sound came between the crashes of thunder.

She had not given pursuit.

So, that was it then. She heard rumor of his ruin and came to see for herself. Her curiosity satisfied, she’d likely return to whatever keep or manor or palace she called home. She saw no threat in him now.

“Good riddance.” Cullen muttered a small curse at her as he made a final turn down the road, where the Sirens Wail came into view.

On first glance one might think the building condemned. The dark wood of the outside looked mostly rotted, held together by little more than rusted nail and some stroke of luck. The windows stained with dust and dirt – the barkeep long given up on trying to keep them clean.

Likely those inside would prefer not to be seen anyway.

The old tavern sign hung over the door, creaking and crooked. Part of the chain had snapped away long before Cullen had arrived in Val Chevin. Once the mermaid painted on the molded wood might have been beautiful – now most of her face had washed away. She was an expressionless specter observing those who came and staggered in and out of her den.

The only signs of life from the building was the flickering of candle light from somewhere within. And if you got close enough, the murmur of voices would float out from miscellaneous gaps and cracks of the woodwork.

Cullen pushed the door open and hobbled in. He was panting now, and leaned against the doorframe for support. Water cascaded down him in streams, quickly pooling on the unswept floor.

“Close the damn door, fool!” an old man barked at him in a thick Orlesian accent, glaring from behind the bar.

Cullen did so and shuffled to the nearest stool, slumping down and resting his head on the counter. Everything ached with stiff and cold. He shivered even in the warmth of the tavern, and his hands shook with uncontrollable tremors.

They were not from the storm he had just crawled out of.

“You know the rules, boy.” The barkeep snarled down at him, thick arms crossed over his protruding gut. “You ‘av no coin? You go. No charity ‘ere.”

“I know…I know.” He muttered, head still rested on his folded arms. “Please, I’ll be gone in a moment…just a moment.” The words trailed off as Cullen felt the breadth of his fatigue, vision dimming around the edges.

Before the old Orlesian could argue, another voice came from over Cullen’s shoulder.

“Have a pity, Maurice. Look at the man.” A woman this time, her voice melodious. “Give him some stew and a mug of that bear piss you call ale, I’ll cover it.” She had an accent too, but it was from the Marches. Starkhaven? That sounded right to him.

Maurice grumbled and Cullen heard him shuffle away into the kitchen at the back of the bar. He turned to meet the gaze of his rescuer. Red hair tumbled down her shoulders in tight ringlets, and small blue eyes scanned his tired face. She smiled, round cheeks dimpling.

“Good afternoon. Well, maybe not for you ‘eh?” she chuckled at her own joke as Cullen could only stare. “I’m Imogen, and you?”

She was dressed modestly, but well. Her clothing was clean and well-tailored. A simple woolen dress, died deep blue and embroidered with small yellow flowers.

She looked vastly out of place. Like a rose growing out of a bed pan.

“Cullen.” He choked, throat tight and raw from the shouting not 30 minutes before. “Thank you.”

She patted his shoulder lightly and took the stool next to him. Maurice came back out with her order and placed it in front of Cullen. The aroma was indescribable, irresistible and intoxicating. The best, most delicious thing he had smelled in weeks. Thick chunks of meat bobbed in the brown gravy-like stew, a chunk of stale baguette dunked half-way in. Pieces of onion and potato gleamed in the candle light.

He started in, ravenous and gobbling mouthfuls as fast as he could. It was only a few bites before his stomach began to cramp in protest and he had to swallow again quickly, before anything could come back up.

“Been awhile, hm?” mused Imogen. “Take it slow then, no one’s gonna take it from ‘ya.”

He nodded and took a sip of ale. Better to go slow. If the meal lasted he might be sheltered from the worst of the storm.

Where would he go after? Lavellan had found him here, under his favorite pier. She had spies probably, watching him. Making sure he kept to himself and didn’t besmirch her name. Could he stow away on a merchant vessel? Maybe to Antiva or Rivain? Somewhere along the coast, where the population was dense and ever-changing. New faces meant better chances at coin and --

“You look down on your luck, Cullen. Maybe to the very bottom of it.” Before he could finish his plot, the stranger Imogen spoke again. “If it pleases you, I could lend some coin. Would you like that?”

His head snapped to her spot next to him, eyes wide-open now. She smiled still, but it did not reach her eyes.

“I…” he trailed off. Yes, please. He wanted the coin more than he wanted the warm bowl of food in front of him. But this was…what was this? He shifted uneasy on the stool. “I…have no means of…”

Imogen waved her hand dismissively. “Of what? Repaying? Don’t worry over it Cullen. Just give me your word you’ll stay in the city. We can work out the details when you’ve got a clearer head.” Her eyes wandered down him, to his mud-stained clothes and cut up feet “And perhaps a pair of proper shoes.”

She reached down into a satchel Cullen had not noticed previously and pulled out a fist-sized purse. It was lumpy, full to the seams with money.

“This is 100 gold, how does that sound?” She asked the question plainly enough, yet it sounded as though she meant something else by it.

“….Yes. Please, yes.” He stretched his hand out and she dropped the sack into his palm. It was more than he had seen in many month. There was more to this exchange, probably. But he couldn’t find it in him to worry. The coin sat heavy in his hands, reassuringly real.

She patted his shoulder one final time and stood, pulling a cloak up from another table and wrapping it around herself. Drawing the hood tight as she headed for the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” This had happened so suddenly, he felt dazed by it. Who was this miraculous woman who had dropped half-a-years’ worth of a recruits salary in his hand? Had she been waiting for him? Was this, at very long last, a prayer answered by the Maker?

Glancing over her shoulder as she reached out for the door handle, she grinned his way. “I’m a busy woman, and unfortunately a little bit of spring rain does not put a stop to my work.” He searched her eyes, but found nothing. She was difficult to read, he thought, probably even for someone clever.

“Take care, and remember Cullen - stay in the city.” There was still kindness in her voice, but an undercurrent of something else too. Something cooler. “Be seeing you.”

She stepped through the door and out into the storm, leaving confused silence in her wake.

Cullen clutched the purse as though it was the only things keeping him upright and breathing. There was only one other patron in the bar, a man maybe his age, slumped over his table and unmoving. He had likely not been aware of their exchange.

He felt his mood lighten, and a weight lifted from his chest – like someone had pulled a cinder block off him. A smile, small but truly there. When was the last time he had smiled? There had not been a reason to in…

He noticed Maurice’s expression had changed too. The deep lines of his face pulled down as he frowned and shook his head, cleaning a glass that seemed to be permanently smudged with grease. He muttered in Orlesian as he scowled at the closed door. Foreign words Cullen, even with his years stay in Val Chevin, still had not learned.

Gulping down the rest of his ale, he extended the empty mug to him.

“Another, please.”

*****

It had been three days since Ellana had found Cullen in Val Chevin. That afternoon she had ridden home against the harsh winds of the sea storm, bitter and cutting against her exposed face.

It had added an extra half hour to her trip. When she finally managed to get in the door she haphazardly tossed her cloak on the floor, kicked her boots off and shuffled over to the single bed. There she plopped face down, hanging partially off one side.

An utter disaster was the only way to describe the encounter. Harding had been right – he seemed completely lost. There was no memory she had of Cullen that would have led her to believe he could have fallen so low.

But he had.

When Ellana had read the diagnosis of ‘lyrium addiction’ a few weeks before, she had written to Dorian and asked for his knowledge on the matter. The only example she could conjure from her past was that of Sampson, grown twice his regular size and monstrous, chaotic red electric energy crackling around him. He had surrounded himself with other former Templars, twisted abominations with the tainted red mineral jaggedly protruding from their broken bodies.

This was certainly not that.

She had pulled herself from her bed and padded over to her writing desk. A stable boy in the Jennies network came to her door every other day to deliver her letters and pick up those she had to send out. She noticed a fresh stack sitting on the table just inside the door.

Ellana felt the smallest tug of guilt when she thought of the Red Jennies, and how she had initially labeled them little more than unorganized rabble. They had provided her with so much more than she could ever repay. Not only intelligence, but the roof she had over her head now. Once a storage space for their contraband, they had cleared it for her when they heard she’d be staying for an undetermined amount of time. Assuring Ellana they were the only ones who knew of its location and she would be welcome to it as long as needed.

She put her quill to the parchment and began:

_‘Commander Cullen has been found. He is not as described. Keep your eyes on the man who begs coin in the alley between the fish market and shopping district, sleeps under the piers, and visits the Sirens Wail. Advise of any change.’_

She folded the paper thrice and dipped a basic stamp seal in the yellow wax at the base of her single burning candle, pressing it to the center.

Next she grabbed her mail and sorted through it.

A letter from Varric, probably complaining of his duties in Kirkwall. That seemed to be the only information he offered of himself now. After a paragraph or two of griping, he would inquire as to how she was recovering, if she had any news, if he should prepare for a trip to her- for any reason. Any at all. Truly.

Always she thanked him for his kindness. Assuring him if there were any need for him to abandon his post of Viscount she would write him with haste.

A report from The Jennies in Seleny, a river town in Antiva. There was a rumor of elven townsfolk disappearing en masse. There in the morning, but homes cleared out come afternoon. She sent the copy to Divine Victoria, who would most certainly be interested in following a new lead.

And a reply from Dorian.

The parchment was expensive, with gillded edges and proudly bearing a purple wax seal that glimmered when the light moved over it. A signet of an intricate snake coiled in and around itself stamped in. She broke it apart gently.

_‘My dearest Ellana,_

_I must begin by saying your question unnerves me. Lyrium addiction? I do hope you have not gone down some dark path of which I must come and lead you off of. I am a very busy, much sought after man – as you well know. I insist you reply to this letter immediately and with the truth of your condition. If it is anything but heartily vivacious, or at least moderately lively, I will send Bull to your location without second thought. He can perform whatever tortuous ritual it is Qunari do to reset their own kind. Don’t think I won’t!_

_But if it is not yourself you are asking for, and you intend to use this information for the benefit of someone else, then this is what I can offer you now: Lyrium addicts lose their memories over time. Little by little they are unable to distinguish what is dream and what is reality. Then comes paranoia, obsession and even dementia. They will forget who they were, who their friends were, everything that made them an individual. Physically, addicts are often weak, they shake and will complain of cold in the limbs. Always thirsty, I have also heard tales of whole-body itch. Quite nasty indeed._

_I will send you some tomes on potion making and the like when I have time to browse my library. There are several gatherings I must attended in the next week, but do look out for them. Perhaps they can offer more detail._

_If I can be of any other service, why don’t you use your sending crystal? You best not have misplaced it again, forgetful creature that you are._

_All of my love,_

_D”_

Ellana laughed despite herself. Dorian, even though written missives, was always the one to pull her from whatever dark dredge her mind lingered in. She had not lost the stone, thank you very much. But she still found herself nervous at the thought of using it. It was one thing to assure him through letters that she was well – but if they spoke in real time he would hear the waver in her voice. Some slight hesitation she could not control, and would insist she come to him.

She would be tempted, too. It would be easy to leave it all behind, she thought, to go and see him in the sparkling city of Minrathous. Drink sweet Tevinter wine and gossip about the illicit activities of his fellow Magisters. Forgetting all about the secret missions she, the Jennies, the Divine, and a few select other still carried out.

Easy to forget how Fen’Harel worked to undo them all.

No, she could not abandon another post as she had done within her clan, and then again with the Inquisition. This was her duty now, she would see it done.

Her thoughts circled back around to the letter, and to Cullen. Dorian had said an addict would forget themselves and their pasts, but Cullen most certainly remembered her.

He had looked weak, but his shove was strong enough to knock her a few steps back. He was certainly in the throes of it, but not as lost as she initially worried.

Even still, she would need to work fast if he was to be pulled out of the madness which slowly consumed him.

She passed the days tending to the cottage, sweeping out the cobwebs and mothballs as best she could muster – and reworking her offer to Cullen again and again in her mind.

He would not come if she simply asked, and certainly not if she tried to demand it. She doubted she could even appeal to his honor. What had caused him to villainize her so? He had not been happy when she offered the mages freedom, but had come to accept it over time. He did not seem displeased when she allowed the Grey Wardens to join – more soldiers, after all.

What had it been? An accumulation maybe…

A sharp knock at the door derailed her train of thought. Quickly she began the workings of a small fire ball in her left hand.

“Who is it?” Her voice was sharp, the same tone the Inquisitor used when addressing an unknown assailant.

“Just Roddy, madam. ‘ere with your letters.”

She dismissed the spell and opened the door for him, midday sun bursting into the dark space. She kept the shutters on the windows permanently closed, just in the case any wandering travelers passed by and become too curious.

Ellana regretted it now, however, and she squinted tightly against the abrupt blast of light – nearly blind.

She extended her palm and felt a single item placed within it.

“Thank you, Roddy. I’m sure this far a trip for a single letter seems nonsensical – but I appreciate it.”

The boy stammered “Oh, no madam! I am very ‘appy to ‘elp. Always good to see you - bonne après-midi!” he turned and headed back to the small horse he had borrowed from his masters stable.

Roddy was young, maybe sixteen. He always seemed happy to collect her letters, sometimes asking if she needed extra help. Ellana had never accepted, but the gesture always brought a smile to her face.

She knew it felt good, important even, to be part of something bigger than yourself.

Ellana closed the door quickly and tore open the report from The Jennys:

_“Commander has come into significant coin, not sure how. No reports of theft. Will keep a watch. Has purchased simple garb for himself. Spends most days and all nights at Sirens Wail. Have a man inside, said he is buying most lyrium that comes through the door. Advise of next move?”_

Anxiety coiled in her gut, a familiar and unwelcome sensation. She was going to need to move a lot faster than anticipated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter updated today my friends. A little bit of exposition before things really get rolling.  
> Thank you again for your continued support! Stay safe, and stay inside. ♥  
> \- A

Stretched lazily out on the straw-stuffed bed of his rented room at The Sirens Wail, Cullen drifted in and out of lucidity. The blissful oblivion was all consuming. Vials of various sizes lay scattered around the dirt-stained floor, drained completely dry of any lyrium they had once held, down to the last drops.

No butchered soldiers, no babbling demons, nothing but the euphoric warmth and heavy fog of the high.

Had Cullen the wits to feel accomplished, he may have found comfort in the fact that he had purchased himself some simple garb before hounding after the lyrium. A plain cotton-white shirt, simple farmers slacks and a pair of canine leather boots. He even set enough aside to purchase a new cloak – crafted of ram leather and lined with fennec fur. A little more expensive than he might have liked, but it would protect him from the elements once the coin ran out and he was back to begging in the alleys.

As it was however, Cullen felt no satisfaction from the self-care. His mind leisurely adrift in the nothingness he had so desperately coveted. It had been three days of buying all lyrium that had come through the tavern’s front door. The illicit trade of it was difficult, as the proper distilling techniques were tightly guarded by the Seekers and mage circles alike.

But that didn’t stop the trafficking, even in its small dosages. There were plenty of ex-Templars ready to hand over their coin for a single mouthful of it, Cullen among them.

Swallow the lyrium, escape the torments for a few hours, sleep until the nightmares woke him, and head back out into the world to find more. A simple cycle, so perfect and easy. There were moments Cullen dreaded the end of it – but this was not one of those times.

Right now, there was blessed serenity.

The door to the room creaked open, and Cullen idly turned his face towards it. His vision was hazy, like trying to look through a heatwave in the Hissing Wastes. He registered the small silhouette of a woman, wrapped in a cloak – or maybe a bulky dress – standing in the doorway.

“….-ullen?”

She was talking. Was it to him? She sounded like an echo from far away. Like he was standing at the bottom of a deep fissure, in the Deep Roads maybe, and she was yelling down to him.

Cullen watched as she came closer, yet no more of her came into focus. He felt his weight shift marginally as she came to sit next to him. She was looking right at him, and his focus tightened just enough that he could admire the light orange color of her eyes.

“Can you hear me?” her voice was soft, like silk against his skin. If he asked, maybe she would sing something for him.

He couldn’t remember any songs, though.

“Can you move?” her voice caressed. She was speaking so gently; he felt the urge to reach out and grab the sound. Cullen lifted his hand to her face, cupping her cheek and brushing his thumb over her mouth. It was delicate and satiny, like plucked Crystal Grace petals.

She jerked back and his arm fell limply back down to the bed. It felt heavy, raising it had been a labour. He did not regret it, though.

“---at are you doing?” She sounded further away this time, and his eyes drifted closed as she spoke. If she was near by when he awoke, he would try to remember to ask for that song.

He felt a small hand lay on his chest and shake him gently as the darkness swept over, and obscurity devoured him completely.

*****

“Cullen? Cullen!” Ellana shook him to no avail. He would not rouse, no matter how many times she called his name.

Keeping her palm on his chest, its slow rise and fall was a small reassurance. He wasn’t dead, just stupefied.

Her plan to try convincing him to leave this place and join her was half-baked at best. The dazed, strung-out state she found him in was no less concerning than the volatile one she had encountered just days earlier.

Ellana knew she was never going to reach him like this, but what could be done? She couldn’t very well sling him over her shoulder and carry him out.

What if she had been a thief? Someone who wished him harm? The door hadn’t been locked. He hadn’t attempted to push her away or defend himself when she came in – he had just watched her, dumbfounded.

And then touched her face, her lips. What had that been about? The electric tingle had just faded away, and she lifted her fingertips to repeat the gesture.

The doorknob turned, and Ellana was out of time to consider her next move. Instinct kicked in and a sphere of flame roared to life in her palm. She took a defensive stance in front of Cullen and prepared for close-quarter combat. Not her favorite, especially with the unconscious Commander laying on a bed of straw.

“WOAH! Easy friend!” A woman’s face quickly appeared around the door edge, darting behind it again after seeing the fireball.

“Who are you?” Ellana did her best to keep the fear out of her voice. This, at least, she had some practice with.

Two hands came around the side of the door again, empty. A show of peace.

“My name is Imogen. I’m a friend of Cullen’s, I’ve been coming to check on him in the afternoons. May I come in?”

The strangers voice was calm, Ellana didn’t like it.

“…. Alright.” Extinguishing the spell, she tucked her arm back into her cloak and watched Imogen step into the room.

Ellana’s initial impression was this intruder looked kind, motherly even. Tight ringlets of red hair swept off her round face and pulled into a bun, save for a few strands too unruly to be confined. Her smile was bright, dimpling her freckled cheeks.

It looked practiced.

“I didn’t know Cullen had any other friends in the city, nice to see I’m not the only one checking in on him.” Imogen took a few more steps into the room, eyes never breaking the gaze Ellana kept on her. She felt her spine stiffen in reaction.

“A mutual acquaintance let me know he was here. We have a history. I came to see him after receiving a letter.” That should be enough of the truth to satisfy.

Imogen’s eyebrows rose, her smile faltering just enough for Ellana’s trained eye to spot it. She silently gave thanks to both Vivienne and the Divine for their training.

“History? Well, that puts you above me I suppose. I met him while he was begging coin on the streets, covered in filth. Did my best by him to make sure he was surviving, ya’know? Don’t have much myself.”

Her simple outfit backed-up the statement. Though the deep-blue dress seemed well-kept. She had recently bathed as well, Ellana could smell the honey-scented soap coming from her curls.

“But I was taught by my ma’ to look after the less fortunate as best I can.” Her eyes swept quickly over Cullen, then back to Ellana. “You must have had a lot going on to get here as late as you did, someone important maybe?”

The words stung and uneased Ellana in tandem. Was she late? Too late? She had ridden out as soon as the letter had arrived for her in Nevarra. Did this woman recognize her face? Curses ran in a string through her mind. She shouldn’t have come out before nightfall.

Before Ellana could reply, Imogen continued “Forgive me!” She shook her head, chuckling to herself “I shouldn’t press, your relation shouldn’t be my concern. I’ve just always been the curious sort, a bad habit of asking too many questions. Do you know what I mean, friend?” she watched Ellana through cold blue eyes, the question hanging heavy in the air between them.

Whoever this person was, Ellana did not want her alone with Cullen. Although everything she had said seemed as though it could be true, there was something lurking behind her questions that made her doubtful the woman had Cullen's best interest at heart. 

A direct confrontation wasn't going to work. Ellana swallowed her indecision down. She knew what had to happen.

“Yes. I do.” She took two long strides towards Imogen, putting them only a few inches apart. If this was a threat, she would certainly meet it in kind. “Why don’t we leave him to rest? It seems he needs it. I’d like to lock the door behind us, in the case someone less…neighborly should come around with ill intent.”

It was the only thing Ellana could think to do. If she could not push the unwelcome guest out, she would leave with her instead.

A single beat passed before Imogen nodded her agreement, breaking the stare-down to look passed Ellana and over to a dozing Cullen one more time. 

“Yes. You’re right, of course. I should have told him last time I was here. My mistake.”

She turned without looking back at Ellana and exited into the hall. Following, Ellana allowed herself a final glimpse at Cullen, who looked just as peaceful as he had before the exchange occurred. She gingerly closed the door behind her.

From the hall, she lifted her hand to where to security latch would be on the inside, and with a small tug on the veil, fastened the bolt.

“Don't see too many mages these days." Imogen commented from over her shoulder “Not by themselves in the city, anyway. A bit dangerous."

“Hm. Is that so?” Ellana smirked as she turned. “Well, I haven't felt threatened at all. Shall we?”

They walked in silence down the corridor and back into the main seating area. Ellana watched as Imogen motioned towards two large men who occupied a table in one of the corners furthest from the door. The first had a heavy club strapped to his side. The second wasn’t armed so far as Ellana could see. Their gazes narrowed for a moment at the sight of her before looking to Imogen for, what Ellana guessed, was instruction.

“My brothers insist on escorting me to this part of town.” Imogen offered when she saw the shadow of suspicion pass over her face. “Like you said, never know what sorts you’ll meet when you’re here.”

“Right.” Was the only reply she offered. Neither of the men had the same fiery locks or round face Imogen donned. Siblings seemed the least likely of explanations, but Ellana knew better than to push now.

Leaving the tavern, Ellana untied her mount from the decrepit post outside and climbed into the saddle. Turning the beast to face back the way she had traveled; she twisted her face over her shoulder.

“Be seeing you, Imogen. And a thank you for watching out for my old friend.”

In reply, Imogen smiled the same tight smile she had displayed throughout the confrontation. Unsatisfied but not wishing to continue the exchange, Ellana spurred forward toward the route of the cottage. The back of her neck pringled with the icy sensation of being watched, until she turned and was out of sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone~ I hope this week has been pleasant for you. If you're keeping to quarantine like me, I also hope you've been well.  
> My goal is to post a chapter a week until roughly mid-April, when my finals are over and I'm free from most other obligations.  
> Thank you again for reading. ♥
> 
> \- A

Cold fingers brushed the base of Cullen’s throat, moving in slow and gentle strokes that sent icy shivers creeping to the base of his spine. He kept his gaze up, eyes solely focused on the hewn stone roof of the chamber. Cullen was unable to close his eyes, but had learned he could direct them elsewhere. The Circle Tower was exactly as it always was, inexplicably frigid and reeking of blood and viscera. From behind, he could hear shrieks of agony echoing down the staircase that lead to the Harrowing Chamber. He knew, instinctively, this was where his charges were being forcibly corrupted into hideous abominations. Bodies tainted and contorted as howls of protest and pleas for mercy went ignored. He could do nothing for them but unwillingly eavesdrop on their torment.

“Why won’t you look at me, Cullen?” The demon pressed against him, fingers trailing lower down, skimming languidly over his Templar plate. “Does this form no longer please you?”

Like his surroundings, the flanging voice was consistent. The subtle purr of the desire demon mingled with another familiar tone, that of the prior adolescent desire, a young circle mage he had known years prior.

A…what was it again? Am…

The name wasn’t what mattered.  
  
It was her visage, a form the monster always assumed. The same long strawberry-blonde hair, wearing the same maroon colored robes donned by all circle mages in Kinnoch Hold. Maker, it even got the placement of her freckles right.

It was the sultry glare which gave it away. His crush had been bashful, never able to meet Cullens face when she spoke what few words she could to him. She was not like this, wanting and temptatious. 

“Leave me.” Was all he could choke out as he tried, pathetically, to wriggle out of its freezing grasp. His armor felt as though it weighed triple what it should, his boots like anchors that kept him rooted to the spot. Gauntlets far too heavy to life his arms and shove himself free. He could not be rid of it.

“Mmmm…” the demon purred in his ear “…perhaps this instead?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cullen saw a shimmering veil of magic cloak the demon. Blonde hair shrunk back into tuffs of soft auburn, pointed ears peeking through. Maroon robes melted away to reveal shining armor of yellow dragon scale. A hand came into view, glowing green light crackling down the center of it.

The palm moved to cup his cheek, gently coaxing him to look downward. He did so, and came face to face with Inquisitor Lavellan. She smiled sweetly, giggling when his face blanched and contorted with panicked terror.

This was new. Nothing in his Circle terrors was supposed to be different. It was the same! Always the same!

Sometimes he saw her at Haven, skewered horrifically on the swords of red Templars. Other times he saw her falling from the fracturing battlements of Adamant Fortress, body tumbling into The Fade. But never here, not in the broken Circle.

“What’s the matter?” Her melodic Marches accent was grotesquely infected with the demons tenor “Don’t pretend you didn’t want this. We both know you did. Still do.”

The Inquisitors smile stretched out, inhumanly long and sharp. Jagged teeth, in boundless and uncountable rows, jutted out from too-thin lips. Putrid, hot breath wafted over him, fetored with rotted flesh. Every nerve in his body ignited with the instinct to run, fear thrashing in his belly like a jailed beast.

The demon pulled Cullen’s face towards its own, laughing manically. “Come my love, just one kiss?”

*

Lurching awake, Cullen oafishly toppled from the bed and hit the floor with a harsh thud, a few strewn vials shattering underneath his weight. Sweat soaked the whole of him, new shirt sticky and clinging to his torso. Breath came in ragged gasps as his eyes darted around the dark room.

No one lingered there. No movement from the shadows in the corners or hallucinations waiting to greet him. A meager stream of light leaked in through the base of the door, and he could smell the scent of something cooking in the taverns kitchen – he was awake, and alone.

Letting his muscles relax, he slumped back against the mound of straw and struggled to get his breath under control. Palm draped over his sweat-coated face, Cullen closed his eyes, massaging his temples with thumb and index finger.

A nightmare. It was only another nightmare.

He repeated the mantra over and over to himself, another part of the routine he had lived for the past year.

Except this time he couldn’t bring himself to fully believe it. It had been different. He had an array of horrors that plagued his dreams, true. But they had never bled into one another. Kinnoch Hold had haunted him for over half his life – but it was always the same scenario.

Why had this time been different? Why had the Inquisitor shown up? How had his lyrium-raddled mind placed her there?

It must have been her visit. She had hunted him down in person days ago, and now she stalked his nightmares as well. The wretched woman, was he not safe from her even in his darkest dreams?

Cullen rose from the ground and stripped his shirt off, ringing it out in a corner of the room before pulling it back over himself. He had no inclination the time of day, but if the sun was out perhaps he could visit the pier and lay in its warm beams to dry off.

He reached into his pockets and fished out the coin purse Imogen had given him, finding he was down to his last few coins. Not enough to procure another lyrium vial, but enough for a flask of cheap wine and loaf of bread.

It would be back to the streets today. Shame bubbled up in his chest, roiling and deep. He had spent half a year’s salary in less than a week on nothing but peasant clothing, and the feeding of his addiction.  
  
His life was forfeit, but the Maker refused to take him.

Pulling on the door to his room, Cullen was surprised to find it locked. He typically didn’t have the forethought to even change out of his clothing while he was drifting on lyrium, never mind the motor-skill to latch a bolt.

Bully for him, he thought sarcastically.

Sun filtered in through the dusted-over tavern windows. By its brightness Cullen guessed it was just before noon. The Sirens Wail was empty, save for himself and Maurice. The old man was sitting on a stool behind the bar, nose deep in a novel Cullen could not read the Orlesian title of. Maurice made no indication he noticed Cullen’s presence at all, even as he walked passed him and out the front door.

The market was bustling and rowdy, the eruption of noise and midday light taking Cullen aback. Shielding his vision from the onslaught on his senses, he began the familiar route towards to docks. Jostling against strangers and mumbling apologies under his breath, Cullen found himself missing the rain that had sent them scurrying earlier in the week. Crowds made him nervous, which meant the alley was the most comfortable place to plead for scraps.

But he would visit the pier first, and let the pleasant sun soothe his tired body and troubled spirit. A small leisure in an otherwise dower existence.

Cullen was close enough to smell the salty air of the Waking Sea when a large hand reached out from the horde of people and harshly clasped his shoulder, yanking him sideways. He stumbled into a side street, one away from the maddening crowd, and was flung up against a rocky wall.

Two large men stood menacingly in front of him. The one who had grabbed him pressed firmly on his shoulder, pinning him against the building they were behind. The other stood a few paces to his left, a heavy club thumping in the palm of his hand.

“Sers, I have no coin or possession or—“ Cullen was cut off as the one holding him grabbed a fistful of shirt and roughly bashed him against the wall, his fatigued body wracking with the impact.

“Not what they want to hear, Cullen.” Came the recognizable voice of Imogen from just down the walkway. He craned his head to see her strutting towards them, smiling.

“Imogen? I don’t understand…have I offended…?” He truly didn’t comprehend what was transpiring.

Imogen laughed, a shrill and wicked sound. Cullen could hear no note of the kindness she had shown him last they met. Panic flared along his frazzled nerves.

“Offended? No, not you. But that little knife-eared mage was certainly out of line. Elves should know their place is in the dirt, just like the beggars should.” She eyed him coolly. “I didn’t know you had friends, Cullen. That complicated things.”

Elven mage? He could think of only one who might have searched him out while he was drowned in his stupor, and there was no way she would have defended him from….whatever this was.

“You look confused” she continued, now standing next to the man with the club “so I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve come to collect on your debt.”

Oh, fuck. His thoughts were cacophonous now. Nothing tangible formed over the roar of fear.

‘I came to see you a day ago, to give you a little warning and time to prepare.” She glanced down at her nails now, looking bored. This seemed as though it was monotonous routine for her. “But you were not in the state for visitors, and the mouthy rabbit made sure I left without rousing you. So now, here we are.”

She lifted her gaze again to meet his eye, waiting for reply. What could he say? The pressure from the brute holding him had already started to bruise his sickly skin. He had no coin or collateral. Cullen was a mouse caught in the maw of a lion.

“Imogen I don’t…there’s nothing I can offer…the coin is gon-“ a savage punch knocked the rest of the words from of his throat, breath whooshing out as Cullen crumpled to the pavement. The stranger who had been holding him backed a few paces, and the one with the club stepped forward to take his place.

“Nothing you can offer?” Imogen sounded indignant “I gave you a baker’s yearly salary, and you have NOTHING to offer me in return? That’s wholly unacceptable Cullen.”

He saw the tips of Imogen’s shoes come into view as she leaned over his buckled frame. The skirt of her blue dress brushing over his grime-covered hands.

“A year’s salary. I’ll give you until midnight to gather it up again, with 50% interest for the inconvenience we’ve endured. Collect it however you must. If you are unable to do so…well.” She stood straight again, backing up so the two thugs flanked her. “We’ll be back, and you can consider this a prelude of things to come. I would offer you servitude, but as you said yourself, what service could you possibly offer?”

He raised his face to stare up at his assailants, all three looked back with contempt.

“Let’s go then.” Imogen ordered, and the trio exited the street the way they had come. One of the men stepping on his splayed hand as they did so. The brittle bones cracked under the weight, and Cullen let out a sharp cry of agony as pain seared up his arm.

None of them turned round, and he was left to weep alone on the dirty ground.

*****

The day after she had left Cullen at The Sirens Wail, a stack of books had been delivered to Ellana's front door. They were neatly tied together in emerald ribbon, a small card tucked into the center of the binding. She plucked it out and read the message written on it in flowing script:

_‘Darling E,  
Here is all I could find that may assist your little research project. Return them at your leisure.  
Stay safe. D.’_

Untying the ribbon, Ellana quickly read the titles of each tome. There were four in total: A master’s guide to potion making, a history of lyrium and its practical usages, a biography of a Dwarven Paragon from the Mining caste, and what appeared to be an aged healer’s journal.

Reading would be a welcomed distraction from her circling thoughts. She hadn’t been able to help Cullen, and she didn't understand why he had been so upset at seeing her. She also didn’t know who the strange woman with the thugs had been, or what business she could have with a burnt out Templar.

For someone who had built an army on the unknown, Ellana still found herself acutely annoyed by it.

Igniting the candle on her writing desk with a flick of her wrist, Ellana sat in the simple wooden chair and opened the cover of the healer’s journal. Most of the entries were in point form, dated 9:10 Dragon – it was thirty-some years old.

  * _Patient exhibits sweating and agitation during times of lucidity_
  * _Shakes and complains of cold, even under several layers of furs._
  * _Does not recognize her brother, does not recall names of other family_
  * _Speaks to visions I do not see_
  * _Sleep fitful and irregular, wakes screaming most times_
  * _Started treatment last morn, no indication recovery has begun_



She flipped to the middle of the book, scanning the entry there. This one had no date, and the writing looked far messier than the opening entry.

  * _Shaking has mostly quelled, cold complaints continue_
  * _Recognizes her brothers face, but cannot place it_
  * _Hallucinations milder, less frequent_
  * _Occasionally sleeps without waking_
  * _Able to hold brief conversation_



Impatient, Ellana turned to the last entry and saw it was not in point form – but a fully transcribed paragraph:

_The patient has left my care against advisement. She claims the song is too sweet, and she wishes only to hear it again. Her brother scorns me, believing I have failed her. Perhaps he is right. She said his name in their last conversation together, so I am fully convinced my treatments had been working. Whatever plagues her is a disease of the spirit, and I am not equipped to heal such things. I will take my findings to the others and see if they can be put to use on other, more willing subjects. Andraste forgive my shortcomings, and have mercy on the poor girl._

A weary sigh escaped Ellana as she leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out. She understood why Dorian had thought to include this in his bundle. A healer’s account of lyrium addiction treatment would be invaluable for study, even if it resulted in failure.  
  
Cullen had certainly been agitated when they first met, violent even. But he had been sleeping peacefully when she had found him at The Sirens Wail – at least from what she could see.

And he remembered her name.  
  
Ellana could not extinguish the small flare of hope that sprung alight within, though it made her wary. He was not gone. Lost, but not so deep there was no hope. She would need remind herself again and again, especially if he continued to push her away.  
  
*

A waning moon had risen by the time she had finished the journal in its entirety. Drained from the day, Ellana elected to leave the rest of the reading for the morning when her mind was rested and better prepared to put a plan together.

She disrobed and crawled into bed, snuffing out the flame on the other side of the room with a twirl of her finger.

The night was mostly silent, save for the gentle chirping of crickets and the crashing of surf in the distance. If Ellana tried hard enough, she could imagine herself back with her clan. Laying in covered wagons along the Amaranthine Coast, listening to mothers sing Dalish lullabies to the young ones while the Halla grazed outside.

Once the fantasy had been painful, but now it was a gentle vision she used to lull herself to sleep. A little escape she allowed herself from the bedlam of her day to day.

Slumber swept Ellana up quickly that night, with images of a long-lost home trailing away into the dark. 


	5. Chapter 5

The sky was splashed in soft lilac, the hazy clouds taking on a dreamy blush color as they drifted lazily over the Waking Sea. Cullen would have found the sight calming once, but now it only served to stir the dread which thrashed in the pit of his gut. The sunset was a reminder, like watching sand trickle down in an hourglass, of the handful of hours he had left to come up with the coin he owed Imogen.

Cullen sat on the edge of the fish market. Begging in the alley would not be enough this day, he needed every piece of copper he could manage, which meant enduring the bustle. A few of the stall keepers had already shooed him away when he got too close. He had been shoved by some of the shoppers he had tried to approach directly, and was blatantly ignored by others.

All he could do was huddle now, mumbling pleas to those who paraded past. The stalls would be closing once the sun had fully set in less than an hour. Cullen cast an eye down to the jar he had found in a rubbish bin, now serving as his vessel for coin. A few copper pieces sat at the bottom, taunting: _this is all you’re worth_.

His hand pulsed with pain as he cradled it gently against his chest. The bruising had already begun to bloom on both sides, a sure sign the small bones had been fractured under the weight of the goon’s boot. It would be incredibly difficult to find someone who might be able to set it right for free, even if he managed to survive until tomorrow.

Under the boiling dread, shame spread its cold cloak over Cullen. He knew there was no hope for a beggar to come up with the sum he needed in the span of a single day. Even if his hand not been crippled and he had tried resorting to thievery, he would need to empty several market stalls to collect what was owed.

But he had never been a thief, and his path of self-destruction was not the burden of anyone else. He would not let a stranger’s family go hungry to save his own damned soul.

But the fear humiliated him all the same. He knew, had accepted, this path would be the end of him. Maybe he would take too-big a dose and not awaken from his nightmares. Maybe the lyrium would take his mind, and he would die a stranger even to himself. Maybe one of his hallucinations would send him to the bottom of the sea.

He had not pictured this, the idea of being beaten into nonexistence by a group of…whatever they were.

It was this terror that fueled him, some desperate thread of humanity left intact. The will to survive, even for the life he had wasted.

Just one more day, Maker, just one.

Not like this.

Andraste cast her mercy on him, please. He did not deserve it, he knew, but he pleaded silently for her grace all the same.

The jar rang with a hollow sound, pulling Cullen out of his reflection. Two gold coins sat atop the smattering of copper, stark in their glittering contrast. His eyes shot quickly to the stranger who had stopped before him.

A young man, likely not seen his twentieth year. His mousy brown hair shaggy over his brow and ears. He was dressed in overalls and a simple work shirt, clunky leather boots covered in dirt. The smell of stable wafted off of him in thick plumes, a scent Cullen would recognize even in his dreaming. His frame was strong, muscles built up over time by someone who hauled stacks of hay and barrels of water.

“It is all I ‘ave, Ser.” The boy’s voice was soft, and he crouched down to meet Cullen’s stare dead-on. His voice dropping to a low murmur as he said, “Keep it out of sight, oui? And know you ‘ave friends.”

Cullen’s confusion must have shown on his face, and the strange boy laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Be well, Ser.” Was all he said before rising, turning away and disappearing into the market’s commotion.

Had the stable boy really given him everything he had? Why would he bother with a condemned beggar? Surely he had a family, or at least himself, to feed.

Cullen had no friends, of this he was certain. Had he met this boy before? Perhaps his memory was more obscured than he had realized.

Shame bubbled up his throat once more, but he did as instructed and plucked the gold coins out of the jar, tucking them quickly into the top of his boot. They slid down the side and brushed up against his foot.

Cullen could not, would not, admit it – but within the guilt he let envelop him, hope also began to blossom.

*

When the last of the stalls had closed, Cullen had given himself permission to rise from his spot and wander into Val Chevin’s darkened streets. Jar in his outstretched hand as he approached anyone he saw still wandering the night. Some had tossed a coin or two in, but most had simply turned away, mumbling excuses about needing to be somewhere else.

That had been roughly three hours ago, and he could now tell by the rotund moon that hung in the sky, he was almost out of time. The jar wasn’t even half-full, and Cullen had not bothered to count the coin that sat in the bottom of it. It could not have been more than fifteen copper pieces.

Plus the two gold that sat uncomfortably at the bottom of his boot.

His only chance now would be to beg from those who sat in crowded taverns, drinking away the day’s problems. He doubted there was even enough to buy into a decent hand of Wicked Grace, not that he had ever been any good at the game anyway.

Cullen had no more time to think as a large hand grasped his elbow and spun him around.

The unarmed man, the same one who had crushed his hand, loomed over him. He snatched the jar from Cullen’s feeble grip and gave it a shake. A sickening smirk peaking at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, “Don’t seem like you got what was asked, worm.”

His voice was deep, and he spoke with a tone of satisfaction.

Like he had been looking forward to this moment all day.

The man’s free hand shot to Cullen’s throat, the grip tightening as he effortlessly lifted him off his feet.

Instinctively Cullen’s fingers pulled and clawed at the hold. The air strangling out of him in violent huffs. It was all in vain, as the brute hauled him down the block and into a side street. Cullen kicked, twisted, and fought as hard as a desperate, starved man could fight.

His assaults bounced off his assailant, like a bull tolerating the buzzing of a fly.

The man made another turn, and stopped. Cullen heard a creaking door open as he was thrown roughly to the floor, pulling himself up to his knees. 

Panting, he dared not move from his position on the ground. But he cautiously raised his gaze to take in his surroundings.

He was in the middle of a shed, something probably meant for storage. The man who had grabbed him stood in front of the door he had come through, arms crossed. Mounted on the back wall was single large sconce, producing enough light to cover the entirety of the space. Shackles had been attached to the wall, and empty, rusted cages stacked in the corners. They looked like they could hold a large dog.

Or a man, if he was huddled tightly enough.

Imogen was leaning against these cages, propped up nonchalantly on her elbow. She watched him with an annoyed expression.

He could not see the second man from the alley, which meant he was likely behind him.

“Imogen pl—“

“Be quiet.” She cut him off, the venom in her voice lashing across his broken heart. There was no way out. She was going to…

Going to…

Going to…

“Do you have any idea what a fucking pain in my ass you’ve been?” The question was rhetorical, Cullen choking on too much fear to answer anyway.

“What a disappointment you have turned out to be.” She pushed off the cages as the man in front of the door tossed her the jar, it rattled with metallic clinking as she caught it.

Her face twisted in disgust at the sight of it.

“You were supposed to be an investment. When I saw you in The Sirens Wail looking like a drowned nug, I assumed you were like the rest of the filth that frequented the place. Desperate for a way off the street.”

She threw the jar to the ground, it shattered into hundreds of tiny, jagged glass fragments. The copper spinning and rolling in all directions.

She continued, her voice rising now “But then I saw the room you rented, full of empty lyrium vials. You fucking waste. You had no intention of trying to get out of the gutter. How am I supposed to turn a profit on some piece of shit, beat down, worthless Templar drop out!?”

She was shouting now, and Cullen shook with the sound of it. Her rage rattling his bones.

“And then…” she choked, as though she strained to speak the next piece, the fury leaving her throat tight “…That shitty little knife-ear. I haven’t found her, but I will.”

She had come closer to him, knelt down and gripped his chin harshly, yanking it up to meet her face.

He did not recognize it, so far from the gentle expression she had first masked herself with. She was beastly, anger twisting her delicate features into something feral.

“I will find her, once we’ve dumped you off the docks. And she’ll take your place. Rabbits go for a pretty piece, especially the ones with magical talent.” She straightened, kicking him pointedly in the shoulder. He toppled over, now on his side.

“Some perverts in Tevinter love that shit.”

There was only one elf she could be taking about. But it could not be. Lavellan wanted nothing to do with him, and she certainly wouldn’t be felled by a few…

Slavers. They were slavers.

“Make it hurt.” Imogen was looking over him now, to someone he could not see. The second thug, then. She ordered coldly, “But not too loud.”

Cullen was hauled to his feet once again, a blow striking him across the face. He tasted the blood as his jaw clamped down on his tongue.

A knee came up next, striking his gut. He would have vomited if there were anything in his stomach to bring up. The sharp agony of broken ribs rocketed through him, and he would have crumbled had the brute not been holding him up.

His body was savagely twisted around, a sickening pop as his shoulder was wretched from its socket. He could not help the scream of anguish that escaped him.

For that, he was shoved face down into the ground, a knee heavy on his back. Blood and soil mixed into paste in his mouth as his body tried, hopelessly, to gasp for air.

None came.

He would die here, choking on his own blood and the dirt he lived in. His lungs burned, his throat tightened. Everything screamed in pain, his body trying against all odds to keep itself going.

His vision blurred, darkness riming the edges.

This was it.

Sound began to fade, he could hear Imogen speaking but the words did not register.

This was it.

His body slackened. The pain receding into nothingness. The panic in his lungs dissipating in acceptance.

This was—

An explosion from outside pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness. The door of the shed buckled and the thug in front of it stumbled forward, tripping over his prone body. The weight on his back alleviated as the man on top of him stood and shoved his companion away.

He could not see what had become of Imogen, but saw three figures rushing into the already cramped space. Hazy shadows without features, he could just make out one was holding a bow. An arrow flew from it, embedding into the shoulder of one of the thugs.

Another threw a knife in the direction Imogen had been standing. Cullen could not tell if it had landed in its target.

The third figure picked him up. Cullen groaned his protest to the action, but his savior made no noise as they rushed him from the shed and back out into the night.

Distantly, Cullen heard another boom and muffled yelling as he was laid into the back of a wagon. The person who had been carrying him climbing over the front and shouting something in Orlesian.

He felt two figures land softly next to him as the wagon took off down the street, one was hovering over him, hands gently prodding his broken body. Their features indistinguishable to him, even this close. He could only make out a red bandana across the lower half of their face.

Finally, mercifully, the darkness took him and Cullen relaxed into oblivion.

*****

Ellana awoke abruptly to the sound of pounding on the cabin door. She flew from the bed and wrapped her cloak over her shoulders.

“Madam! Please! Wake up!” She recognized Roddy’s voice in an instant, even as it rang with panic.

Unlatching the bolt, she threw open the door and was greeted with a confusing scene.

Roddy was on her doorstep, red bandana covering the lower half of his features. Behind him were two more Jennies who wore the same unmistakable cloth of their organization. One had a bow strapped to his back, the other was holding a torch – the only light in the dead-of-night darkness. Ellana could see throwing knives hanging in a row from her belt, one missing.

But it was the disheveled, crumpled mass Roddy carried in his arms that truly baffled her. In the dim torch-light it looked like a mound of unwashed laundry, stained with dirt and blood.

Roddy shifted slightly, readjusting his grip and jostling the heap when it…

Groaned. It groaned.

This was not some messy pile of linens, Ellana’s elven eyes finally focused sharply on the features, even in the meager light that illuminated Roddy from behind she could recognize a face.

Cullen’s face. Battered, bruising, covered in blood both fresh and dried.

She swore under her breath and stepped aside, clearing the door for their entry.

“Get him in here, lay him on the bed.” Her voice was restrained, practiced in giving calm orders even when anxiety ignited in her veins.

Roddy and the unknown woman entered as Ellana flicked her wrist to ignite the candle on her writing desk. The Jenny with the torch kept it alight, standing at the head of the bed as Roddy gingerly lay Cullen down.

The man with the bow stood in the doorway, addressing Ellana “I’m going to stay out here. Don’t think we were followed, but would like to keep watch anyway.” She could tell he was waiting for her permission.

Turning to take him in fully, Ellana could now see the tips of pointed ears peeking through long black hair. His eyes reflected the light in the cabin, much like a cat’s would.

“Smart.” She began, nodding her approval “Give a knock if you need backup.”

Wordlessly the elf turned and retreated into the shadows.

Ellana padded quickly to the bed, assessing Cullen. Broken nose, swollen lip, dislocated shoulder.

“May I have one of those?” She motioned to the knives on the Jenny’s belt. Palm extended and open. The woman handed one over without hesitation.

Ellana gently lifted the shirt away from Cullen’s torso and slide the sharp blade down the fabric, it cut like a fish through water. She let the torn linen fall to the side and took in his damaged body.

Broken ribs, likely several. Some shards of glass in his side too.

Her stomach turned, but she shoved her own discomfort down.

Kneeling, she assessed his hands. The first was fine, covered in dirt and blood but no obvious damage. The other was swollen to double its size, almost completely black and blue. Shattered.

She ran deft fingers down each of his legs. There was no significant damage to either, and she easily removed his boots. No swelling or bruising on the feet.

It had been many years ago that Ellana had tried her hand at healing magic. She could likely handle the small cuts and breaks, but the ribs and the hand would require someone with far more skill.

She could also relocate the shoulder, but Roddy would need to hold Cullen up for that.

“There are some bowls and rags in the kitchen, bring them here.” She said to no one in particular as she began to soothe what she could with her skill. She gently plucked the glass from his skin and moved her open palm over the small wounds they left behind. A yellowish glow illuminating the area as they slowly, so slowly, began to close.

The items appeared next to her in an instant, and Ellana turned her attention towards them. She summoned ice to her hand and dropped the large blocks into each bowl, then began to melt them with the flame she was most accustomed to.

When the water had warmed, she soaked the rags and offered one to each of the Jennies, saying “Help me get as much of the filth off him as we can, and tell me what the fuck happened.”

They worked well together, gently working the dirt and blood off Cullen’s battered body. Some of it, she realized, had been on him far longer than tonight. Occasionally he would groan, or shift, but he did not rouse.

Roddy explained the evening’s events to her. How he and the others had been keeping an eye on him, as asked. How Roddy had spotted him in the market, broken and desperate. How they had tailed him for most of the night, and had quickly formed a plan when they saw the thug grab him off the street.

The woman with the torch had learned a few simple blast recipes from her Dwarven partner, she had taught her to use basic, everyday ingredients.

“Not deadly.” Explained the Jenny, “But effective for this sort of thing.”

They had to assemble the explosives while Cullen was being thrashed by Imogen’s thugs. From the looks of it, they had gotten there just in time.

One of the thugs had taken an arrow to the shoulder, while Imogen got a knife in the thigh. Not the punishment she deserved, but a good start, mused Ellana.

In the confusion they had simply picked up Cullen and ran, which Ellana agreed was the smartest thing they could have done.

“I’m sorry, Madam…” Roddy spoke softly as he dunked his rag back into the water, a cloud of muck now swirling in it, “I should ‘ave told him to come with me, back in the market…”

Ellana could see the guilt reflected in Roddy’s eye’s and shook her head. “No, you all did excellent work. I doubt very much he would have followed your lead…and even if he had, he certainly would not have come here.”

Yes, this was going to be an absolute fucking mess when Cullen awoke.

If he…

No, when.

Once the majority of grime had been cleared, and Cullen's shoulder returned to it's socket, Roddy left to empty the bowls. It was almost dawn now. The Jenny’s would need to return to the city, lest those who knew them outside this small circle start to become curious of their missing servants’ whereabouts.

Cullen looked far better than he had hours previous. She had used her magic to heal and mend where she could, but the rest would need to wait.

When Roddy returned, Ellana took the bowls from him and began, “I know you’ve done much for me. But I must ask another favor, and likely not the last.”

Though his face was weary, the boy smiled kindly as he spoke. “Of course madam, what is it?”

“Elfroot.” Ellana sighed, peering back over her shoulder at the slumbering man in her bed “As much of it as you can find.”


End file.
